


Breathe.

by ToxicBabes



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Comfort No Hurt, Gen, Night Terrors, Not Romance, Panic Attacks, Paternal!Thatcher, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicBabes/pseuds/ToxicBabes
Summary: Mute has a nightmare after a long mission and Thatcher comforts him.





	Breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I love writing (or imagining) romance fics with large age differences, this is a non-romantic oneshot featuring Thatcher being paternal as fuck because I dig that kind of wholesome shit. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at a-r-k-t-i-c

With more than three decades of experience under his belt, Thatcher had seen everything. Heads blown into mush, bellies flayed open, gashes deep enough to expose bone. Those images were ingrained in his mind, a haunting memory that loomed in the depths, waiting to strike during his darkest hours. It used to be harder to deal with the mental baggage of what his job entailed but over time he grew jaded, resistant to the taunting thoughts that urged him to fall apart. Though what he knew was that sometimes it was harder to cope with, and not everyone could push it aside like he could.

Stress manifested in Smoke as anger. He was like a lit fuse during his bad days, quick to yell, even quicker to slam doors and break things whether by being too rough or even becoming frustrated enough to throw objects. He spent hours in the gym striking the punching bag until his fists were bruised and bloody, too tender to even move. Too embarrassed to face Doc, he sought out Thatcher’s help and allowed him to bandage his hands, promising to wear gloves next time.

On the other hand, Sledge was more equipped to deal with his own problems. He saw a therapist on the regular, took his medication and continued rumbling on like a well-tuned engine but Thatcher could sometimes see through the cracks. He noticed the nights where Sledge would drink more than the usual to numb himself, how he preferred to be left alone to his thoughts rather than take part in the conversation around him, the way he would assure him that he was fine even though his eyes were reddened and his cheeks were still damp when Thatcher would check up on him in his room. 

Then there was Mute. Youngest of everyone, fresh meat, a fruit ripe for the picking. Thatcher himself was surprised he managed to survive this long with the chaos of their missions, he’d seen enough recruits wiped out within seconds by a single nitro cell or an unfortunate bullet to the head. Yet Mute was unscathed and came out more pristine than when he went in, though shaken. It wasn’t a surprise. Days of long consecutive missions were hell on the mind, the constant gunfire and feelings of unease lingered long after they were extracted from the site. 

Thatcher knew it was a matter of time before Mute snapped, he saw it from miles away whether if it was from his shaking hands to his twitchy eyes that darted to anything that moved. Despite asking numerous times, Mute was insistent he would be okay and simply blamed it on his nerves. He didn’t drink excessively and remained as his docile, quiet self although Thatcher could sense something was off. He was tense. 

A gasp tore from his throat at four in the morning. It sounded like he was being strangled. It certainly felt like it to him. Everyone sprung up, alert and ready to fight back but only to find there was nothing there. In the bottom bunk Mute had awoken from a nightmare, his breaths shuddering as he heaved in more air and his snivelling was just audible where Thatcher laid in the top bunk. 

There was a momentary pause between the three of them, each of them wondering who was going to address the fact that their teammate was having a panic attack. 

“Mark, mate. You alright?” Smoke’s voice whispered softly from the other bunk. No response came, just a stifled sob. 

Thatcher peeled the blanket off himself and climbed down from the top bunk, grabbed blindly in the darkness for the edge of Mute’s bed. He squinted as Smoke turned on the lights and made out Mute’s curled up body, knees hugged to his chest and slumped against the corner of the wall. He looked over at Sledge who was groggily sitting up. “Get the lad some water, will you, Seamus?” He murmured and took a seat on the thin mattress. 

“Aye.” Sledge stumbled towards their bags and rummaged until he found a bottle of water. “Here.” 

Thatcher took it and held it, studied Mute for several seconds. “Turn the lights off, it’s too bright,” he suggested. The crack in the door allowed in a thin beam of light, just enough for him to make out the shapes in the darkness. He reached for Mute, his hand coming into contact with his shoulder and he could feel the tension gathered in his muscles. “Here, you’re alright. It’s just me.”

His body radiated heat and his shirt was drenched in perspiration as if he had been caught in rainfall. As Thatcher coaxed his hands away from his face and unfurled his body, he held back another wave of tears but didn’t resist when Thatcher slung an arm around him to pull him into a reassuring embrace. Without even realising he had instinctively hugged him back and buried his face into the soft fabric of his shirt, feeling like a small child clinging onto a parent as he wailed.

“Just let it all out. It’ll feel better,” Thatcher murmured softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles into his back and the other carding through his curls, brushing his damp hair off his forehead. Hot tears soaked into his shirt but he didn’t mind at all and continued his motions.

Terrorised by his own memories, Mute let the floodgates open and wept, his voice muffled into Thatcher’s chest and fists balled up in his shirt, deathly afraid to let go of the only thing that reminded him he was still alive, he was safe and no longer in danger. Despite that his mind believed he was still there in the depths of a terrorist-ridden building, that they were lurking everywhere, ready to drive a knife in his throat and leave him gurgling in his blood. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t control his fear, how it loomed in the darkest corner of his mind no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it and tell himself it was all nonsense.

His heart was beating so rapidly he was afraid he was having a heart attack. With every gasping breath his throat and ribs ached, his head throbbed and he was exhausted of all energy, just managing to let out a few more tears before all he could do was suck in shaky breaths.

“Control your breathing,” Thatcher instructed in a soft tone and began to count slowly, restarting every time Mute’s gasps took over.

“I-I can’t!” Mute cried back, wondering if he was truly going insane. His lips quivered, face contorted in agony as he made another pathetic noise, there was nothing else he could do. “I can’t, I c-can’t, I’m dying, I-“

His voice trailed off as if someone had stolen his voice-box. Thatcher’s hands clamped firmly on either side of his head and held it steady, forcing him to look back into his eyes. Mute’s fingers grasped at his wrists as another torrent of hot tears ran down his cheeks, he trembled in his hold, reduced down to nothing but a choking mess of tears and snot. 

Thatcher hushed him, thumbs pushing away the tear tracks. “Hey, look at me-  _ look.  _ We’re in Paderborn, Germany, remember? The mission ended today, we were taken out at eight o’clock, everyone’s okay.  _ You’re _ okay, you’re safe, you’re alive. Now look around, yeah? We’re all here, you’re safe,” he repeated and allowed his palms to slip down to Mute’s shoulders, still holding onto him with a reassuring grip. “I want you to breathe in time with me. One, two, three…”

“I-“

“No talking. Look at me. Breathe. One, two, three, four, five, six… and hold it. Now exhale, one, two, three…”

There was a newfound quietness across the room. Thatcher repeated the process ten times before stopping, making sure Mute was breathing steadily before he did. He pushed the bottle into his hands. “Drink up. You’ve been sweating like a pig, lad.” 

Parched, Mute chugged down the bottle and took in a long shuddering breath, still sniffly and achy all over. His throat was raw, eyes swollen and it was as if someone had hit him over the head with a hammer. “I could smell them,” he said in a whisper. “They were trying to get me, I tried to run but I got trapped-“

Thatcher cradled his shaking hands within his own and gave them a squeeze. “I know, I know, but it’s not real. It’s just a dream, Mark,” he murmured back. “Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let yourself forget it’s all just a dream.”

“It felt so real…” Mute shook his head and wiped at his cheeks and his nose. “I’m being so fucking silly,” he said and tried to laugh but a strangled noise came out, sounding more like a whimper.

“Don’t call yourself that,” Thatcher said and left the bed, only to return a few seconds later with a new shirt for him to change into. “You feeling alright now?”

Mute accepted the shirt. “Y-Yeah. ‘M sorry for crying all over you,” he said in a mumble and made quick work of peeling off his damp shirt and slipping on the one he was given.

Thatcher gave him a pat on the back and stood, about to climb the ladder back to the top bunk.

“Mike?”

He stopped and looked back down at him.

“Want me to tuck you in?” Thatcher asked with a gruff chuckle, offering him a gentle smile. “Good night kiss an’ all?”

A smile broke Mute’s tearstained face, he mustered a quiet laugh back. “No. I just wanted to say thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel : Thatcher helps Mute arrange counselling sessions with a therapist by talking to Doc for him.


End file.
